


Until a lone victor remains

by isobeu



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, District 3 (Hunger Games), District 8 (Hunger Games), Fights, Gen, Hunger Games, Reapings (Hunger Games), The Capitol (Hunger Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isobeu/pseuds/isobeu
Summary: From the Treaty of Treason:"In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public "reaping". These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol. And then transferred into a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as "The Hunger Games."The 90th yearly reaping approaches and kids in the districts of Panem are on edge. For Velvet Paylor and Hal Latier that year was special: their last, if everything worked out alright. Free of the Hunger Games, forever!But the odds weren’t in their favor. The tech prodigy of district 3 and the professional fighter from district 8 are reaped as tributes and have to go to the Capitol, where they will face trained opponents, political intrigues, and the always difficult task of getting sponsors. After all of that, the arena awaits, cruel and ready for their blood baptism.Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 90th edition of the Hunger Games!Updates every Thursday!
Comments: 8
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is a canon-divergent Hunger Games fanfiction, in which Peeta and Katniss died in the 74th and the rebellion failed. It takes place 16 years later. I don't include any spoilers of The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, but there are a couple of characters last names inspired by that. It's originally avaliable in Portuguese. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to sadsnail for being a beta to this chapter.

**Velvet**

“I think you’ll lose a tooth today.”

I sigh and roll my eyes, annoyed at my friend. “You say this every time, Damask.”

“But this time I mean it, Velvet! This guy is huge.”

“And?” 

Damask hesitates for a second. “He says he hates you and will beat you to a pulp. Because of your mother.”

A little bothered by the information, I sigh again. The entire population of District 8 hates us. Goodness, even I hate myself at times, and I know the whole story. “It’s a little harder when they hate me beforehand,” I admit. “But I can handle it, Damask. As always.”

He seems a little bit relieved with my demonstration of humbleness and sits on the sidewalk, watching me stretch. We are in the loading and unloading area of the Shed, the only bar in District 8 that has Capitol’s authorization to do live events — since the last uprising, reunions of five people or more are forbidden. The exceptions are work assemblies, public screenings of the Hunger Games, and the nights at the Shed. Their fight nights are by far the most popular form of entertainment in town.

Being a regular fighter, the Canva family, who owns the place, allow me to prepare here, and not under the patron’s curious eyes. To be quite honest, this area of the Shed is like a second home to me: here I keep the bands that I use on my hands for protection during fights, some sports clothes, and the ‘equipment’ that I use to train in daily life — a beer keg full of sand, a skipping rope, and resistance bands.

The modality of fighting that is popular in District 8 is commonly called the ‘dance’. It sounds ironic since there’s no music, finesse, or subtlety, just one opponent circling the other, taking them to the ground and fighting until one of them taps out. We have some rules, of course: we can’t punch the opponent's private parts or hit their heads into the ground, nails must be clipped, and blades of any kind are strictly forbidden. I have been dancing in the Shed for three years, and nobody has ever gone against these little commandments. District 8 has an almost religious fervor for the dance — almost like the Capitolians feel for the Hunger Games. The difference here is that people usually don’t die.

I finish stretching and start doing some jumping jacks to warm up. Damask is still worried, his hands shake while he rolls his tobacco. I hate cigarettes, but I can’t blame him: Damask works in the cotton mills, the main industry of District 8, and inhales nasty chemicals and pieces of cloth every day. One extra cigarette wouldn’t make his already bad lungs any worse. He doesn’t cough yet — at least not in front of me — but with his skinny frame and long hours in the factory it was just a matter of time.

“How’s the betting pool?” I ask to distract him.

“Half for you, half for him,” he answers, looking for his lighter in his pockets.

I stop warming up, scared.

Damask lights his cigarette and shrugs.

“Well, what is done is done,” I say.

******

“Now I understand what you were talking about,” I say to Damask, sitting at one of the Shed’s plastic tables.

The clientele was already gone: even though the bar could work officially, the open hours were limited. The Peacekeepers' patience was not infinite, and one cup of the Canva’s moonshine was already enough to make customers cause all sorts of trouble. If that kept going into the night, the mess would not be well received by the Capitol.

I take a sip of the moonshine, trying to balance an ice pack on my swollen eye. If I was lucky, it wouldn’t get black overnight.

“See it on the bright side,” Damask says, also sipping from a cup. “You didn’t lose your teeth.”

I check them with my tongue. Two of them are kind of loose, but I don’t say anything about it. I can fix this tomorrow, after the reaping. It is not the first time that Weaver, my healer neighbor, would receive me with a dozen bruises.

It’s not usually this bad. I almost always win the dance matches, be it against huge guys who work loading boxes in trucks, fast girls, or well-trained Capitol Peacekeepers. The Shed is, in many ways, my kingdom, the only place in which the people of District 8 seem to not want to kill me — they actually couldn’t if they tried. I’ve been fighting since childhood for sport and self-defense, but here my hobby gives me some money and respect. I am grateful for these nights, even when I lose.

It wasn’t easy for the Canvas to open this place. They had the money to buy the old warehouse, but the Capitol hated the idea of anything nice happening in District 8. They had to go through months of bribing officials and fortunately got some support from the Peacekeepers who missed having somewhere to have a little fun in their nights off. After some time, it all worked out, and the Shed was open and always full.

The most popular days are when the ‘dances' are held, in which skilled fighters brawl until one of them tapped out. The thing was serious: if someone wanted to see the matches they had to buy tickets in advance. Nothing expensive, since most people here already have less than they need to live, but it enabled the existence of a well organized and profitable league.

Old Eszdras Canva runs the thing with an iron fist; new fighters have to wait the beginning of a new semester to try out for the league, challenging one of the established players to show their worth. If chosen, they are put in the circuit, getting points for each win. I had never fought the guy I faced today before, but he had already gotten a good enough reputation in the season so the betters liked him, and today some of them were right to not put their money on me. If I won the next matches, I would meet him again soon and have my redemption. I really look foward to these things. 

Already considering the weaknesses that I showed today, I make a training plan for the week. Discipline is my one quality, and I spend my free time running, lifting weights, or fighting in the school gym. I try to be methodical and cold about my performance. Ego usually kills good dancers. I start to explain to Damask what I am going to do this week, but we are interrupted. Levi Canva walks in our direction, coming from the bar’s office. He gives me an envelope with a little bit of money, my part of tonight’s profit. I don’t bother to count. The Canvas are honest.

“It’s not your usual sum,” he tells me with a sympathetic smile. A great smile, I might add.

“It’s OK.” If it weren’t for my dark skin, I would be blushing like a shy schoolgirl. I thank the heavens for that. “I have to work on some things anyway. It’s a good incentive.”

Being this close to Levi makes me uncomfortable; I have a crush on him since always and never got the nerve to say anything. I know I’m not ugly and we have a common interest — we spend hours talking about dance strategies — but I am not good at talking to people about other subjects. Trying to not look intimidated, I give him the ice bag and say good night. I walk out of the bar quickly, and Damask follows me.

“Quit being a coward!” my friend says.

Damask is quite charming, so he doesn’t understand my hesitancy to flirt with Levi Canva. To avoid the conversation, I shrug and walk quickly, leaving him behind. He gives up on saying anything and follows me, frustrated. We walk home, and I pretend to be distracted by our surroundings so I don’t have to say anything.

There is not much to see in District 8. Even though here we make the most beautiful fabrics of Panem, the place in which I was born, raised, and probably will die is just… ugly.

The factories, sewing workshops, and mills take most of the space, and the rest consists of dirty buildings in which we live in tiny apartments. We have decent schools that teach well the professions we need in the districts, but apart from that there is not much to compliment. The streets were paved at least a hundred years ago, and the pollution of the machines and tiny pieces of cotton from the mill cover the town, making a symphony of coughing the main noise in the evenings. I keep my lungs clear because I don’t work yet, but in some years I would join the chorus.

Almost all of our 100,000 population live like that, in a town so crowded, badly planned and build, that I honestly don’t know how it hasn’t fallen yet. But some have a little bit of luck, the border people, that bring in the cotton harvest. They don’t manually harvest the cotton, but they drive the tractors that do it and organize everything, also planting some of the food we eat here. It’s back-breaking work, no doubt about it, but the truck drivers that get the boxes there say that their houses are in open fields, with trees around and clean air. I would like to see trees one day.

Near my building, Damask breaks the silence: “So, tomorrow, huh?”

I nod my head, trying not to smile. Tomorrow would be my last reaping, my last chance to be picked for the Hunger Games. Next year I would be nineteen, and this yearly nightmare would be over. 

Being reaped to the Hunger Games has been a fear for district kids for the last ninety years, when the districts rebelled against the Capitol, tired of being treated like trash all the time. It goes without saying that the rebels lost. What did they have in mind, thinking they could overpower all the weapons and technology the Capital had? I would never believe in fairytales such as the ones the rebels tried to sell to us. Better keep your head down and stay alive than do all and die, leaving a terrible legacy to your children for almost a century — more, if things kept going this way.

Because of this defeat, all of the twelve districts of Panem are obligated to send a boy and a girl every year, the so-called ‘tributes’. They are then pampered, trained, interviewd and thrown in an arena to fight to the death. Only one goes home. We have only two live victors in 8, and they live in mansions in a separate part of the town. They don’t mix a lot with the rest of us, since they don’t have to work; the Capitol pays them a generous pension every month, apart from providing their housing.

The reaping day, in which tributes are chosen, is the worst day of the year for anyone between the ages of 12 to 18. Tomorrow I would wake up without knowing if I was going to sleep in the security of my home or on a train going to the Capitol, with a painful and televised death waiting for me. This was the worst part of the Games, watching it was mandatory, and everything was done most spectacularly so that the Capitol people would have fun. And they love gore, so even the most kind-looking tributes become blood-thristy monsters.

When we reach my house, Damask hugs me. “See you tomorrow night. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to Sadsnail for being a beta to this chapter.

**Hal**

When I open my eyes, reality hits me like a train: it’s reaping day. My last reaping.

My shoulders become tense, so I get up and stretch. Stress is common on reaping day, but it’s completely irrational to let it control me. Of course that’s just theory — in practice, it’s hard to stay relaxed when you may be set up for a painful and public death. In the bathroom I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m not very fond of pep talks — they are just cheap psychology for people who don’t know better — but today I make an exception.

“There are 222,546 people on District 3, of which 35,607 are adolescents,” I say to myself. “Not accounting for tesserae and multiple entries, you have a 0.0000001% chance of being reaped. Just be a little logical here and you can get through today.”

That helps me, but deep down I know that the chance is still there. Even with the numbers on my side, reapings are known to defy statistics — often there is a disproportionate amount of 12-year-olds in a edition, probably a Gamemakers’ attempt to bring more drama and blood. Also there is the matter of victor’s children being reaped more often than not — and as I am one, the odds are not in my favour.

I remember clearly the day I met my father: I was six years old, and my universe was the orphanage I was left in when I was a baby. Adoptions were rare in District 3, so even at that age I knew it was unlikely that I would be adopted. Who would want to adopt a fully grown kid? Then Beetee, my father, came into the picture.

In his first visit, he didn’t express his wish to adopt a child. The orphanage caretakers just told us that we were receiving the honor of getting a class from Beetee Latier, a great tech genius. We knew that this was important: technology is District 3’s industry, and we all would work with that eventually. 

Everybody got together in the old auditorium, listening to him closely. Well, everybody but me and Lumino, my best friend. We played with a wooden toy car in the back of the room, not impressed by his monologue about musical chips and conductors.

The class ended, and Beetee stayed there, answering questions from the older kids. After everybody dispersed, he came to talk to me and I thought I was in trouble — how dare I not pay attention to his lecture? But no, he just wanted to talk. In the following days, he visited the orphanage almost daily, and it was obvious for my mates that I was probably going to be adopted. Even Lumino stopped talking to me for a while, extremely envious. More or less a month after the first lecture, Beetee asked me if I wanted to be his son.

This happened twelve years ago. When I first got home, I didn’t know my father was a victor, I just thought he was rich due to his inventions. I have always been an extrovert, so the lack of other kids around made me feel extremely lonely. I was happy with the adoption, of course, but I couldn’t understand why we only had two neighbors —- not when there were twelve perfectly good mansions becoming filled with dust and spider webs.

I only understood the reasons for that when my father told me he was going to the Capitol in the following week to mentor in the Hunger Games. I had a vague idea of what the games were, as mandatory viewing started at age ten. I didn’t want to bother my father with any stupid questions, so I went to the library and asked for books that talked about the Games. The librarian mentioned it was a strange theme to a young boy be interested in, but gave me a couple that she judged appropriate. There is nothing child-friendly in the Games, of course, but it was still a nice gesture.

I spent the whole night awake, reading about it. At breakfast the next morning, I was quiet, a rarity since I got here: we spent almost every meal talking about my father’s inventions and the latest technologies made by District 3. When he stood, I got the nerve to ask what haunted me all night.

“Did you kill someone in the Hunger Games?” I said to my father, not bothering to sugar-coat it.

His face went pale and, for a moment, he seemed to contemplate running away. But no, he sat down, took a deep breath, and told me everything. Every single detail of the 40th Hunger Games, when he was crowned victor.

The subject was never the theme of any of our conversations again, not even when he got back from the Capitol every year, completely haunted by the two tributes lost in the arena. He did his best, but our children are thin and educated for intricate works in technology production. We stand little chance if compared with people from Districts 1, 2, and 4, that train all their lives in a special academy for a chance of competing in the Games — because of that, they are nicknamed Careers. Even the cattle farmers from 10, or lumberjacks from 7 are more qualified to win.

It doesn’t matter to the Capitol that my father is already sixty-five years old: he still has to go there every year to mentor. As always, he would go and I would stay home, probably with my Aunt Wiress. She and my father are not blood-related, but have known each other for a long time, so it’s almost like they were. She’s a victor too, but as she suffers from cognitive damage due to injuries sustained in the Games, the Capitol lets her stay home during it. I’m happy for her not having to go to that snakes nest, but I think that it would be nice for my father to have a fellow mentor to share the workload with — in almost every District there is one for each tribute.

I take a quick shower and comb my hair, going down for breakfast right afterward.  My father  is not around, so I prepare some porridge and eat by myself. After cleaning up, I think about going to him, but just then I hear the study’s door close. Seconds later, father comes into the kitchen, looking nervous. He should already be dressed in the clothes that the Capitol sent him for the reaping, but he is still wearing the olive green jumpsuit, the district’s standard clothing. We are very practical people, and no one sees the point of choosing their outfits daily. Even on reaping day, when the Capitol instructs us to look good, we still use the same clothes, just a little bit cleaner. Girls also put a bandana on their heads, and boys comb their hair well. This was as far as we went, almost a heresy to Capitolites to which the victors weren’t entitled to.

Father sits down, cleaning his glasses impatiently. His short-sightedness gets worse every year, but apart from that, he is fairly healthy and active. The Capitol worries a lot about that, taking him to yearly check-ups and giving him the most modern health treatments when needed. They don’t want to lose one of their few living victors from District 3 — who would mentor tributes if Beetee Latier died? I offer him some tea and he accepts, still lost in his thoughts when I put a mug in front of him.

“What happened?” I ask him, curious.

“I just got off the phone with the Capitol,” he answers, a little hesitantly. “I don’t have to go there this year.”

His nervousness impresses me. “But that’s good, right?”

My father shakes his head negatively. “I don’t know, Hal.” He takes a sip of his tea, and the drink seems to calm him a little bit. “It’s strange that they want Wiress and Ada to mentor this year, don’t you think?”

I consider his point. There is some logic here, Aunt Wiress has never mentored anyone before. And Ada… well, she isn’t the most trustworthy person in the world.

Ada won the 75th Hunger Games. Every year is cruel, but that one was special: a Quarter Quell, an edition with a special rule introduced to punish us even more. I was just a baby back then, but I saw a rerun. Before each episode, it said:

“In the 75th anniversary of the rebellion, to remind the rebels that the young pay for their mistakes, the tributes will be reaped only amongst those of twelve years of age.”

Even for the Capitol, it’s too cruel. Lumino said that was probably revenge, the year prior was a fiasco. Apparently, the two final tributes, both from District 12, were in love, committing suicide together when they realized one of them had to die. The disastrous situation resulted in some small and isolated uprisings across Panem, that didn’t work, but bothered late president Snow. The Capitol thinks that even weak, easily crushed rebels defy their image of omnipotence, and go out of their way to show us how stupid and insignificant any act of disloyalty is.

Ada was the kid that survived that arena and was haunted by that since then. I saw her only once or twice a year — the rest of the time she was home, drugged out of her mind, trying to forget. 

“But is Ada…” I search for the word but don’t find it. Drug addiction is not common in District 3, so I don’t know how to talk about it.

“Clean?” Father suggests. “No. And the Capitol knows that. They give her the pills, after all. I don’t know how she will deal with sponsors.”

I nod my head. Out tributes rarely ever get gifts given by rich Capitolites in the arena, but it was the mentor’s job to find that for them. It seems to be exhausting work, that requires a lot of sweet-talking. Ada and Aunt Wiress weren’t the people for the job.

“Well, at least we are going to be together this summer,” I tell him.

I think he gives me a dark look, but it’s gone after a second. Father smiles and says, “Yes. Now, go get ready.”

**Velvet**

The delicious aroma of bread baking wakes me — probably my dad, making our special breakfast. Reaping day was terrible, but it was a holiday, after all.

Our reaping was first in the whole country, so we were expected seven sharp in front of the Justice Building, no tardiness allowed. For us, that day could represent death, but it was the highlight of the year for Capitol people that refused to lose any of the broadcasts, even the ones from high number districts like ours. A lot of them placed bets on who would win, so it was important to see the appearance of each tribute beforehand.

I get the dress on top of my drawer and go to the bathroom. We don’t have a lot of money, but my dad spoils me in every way he can, ironing my clothes, cleaning the house to perfection, and doing amazing meals even with simple ingredients. He says that this is due to the boredom of a worker bee whose wings were cut, which leaves me sad, but it’s true, because of a problem in his back, my dad stopped working in the cotton mills a year ago and has had to use a wheelchair since then. He does some embroidery work for the rich people in town, and takes care of our house, but that doesn’t make the day pass by faster.

I open the tap to wash my face, but no water comes out.

Typical.

I take a deep breath and go to the kitchen. Water shortages are common in District 8 since we don’t have many natural sources nearby we can use; our river was diverted for construction a few years back, and the bridge that divides the town is now purely decorative. According to the mayor, we should be happy that we are not in 12, where there is no plumbing system or constant electrical supply, but I can’t find comfort in that. Someone having it worse does not make our situation better. In 12 they produce coal and medicine, and I have no idea how they live without being able to scrub their skins after a long day.

My dad is fixing up the table to our breakfast with hot bread, eggs, and tea. My stomach howls, but I have to get ready before eating. I hug dad and ask, “Was there any water at all today?”

“Not here,” he says, with a sigh. “But I got some in the community tap for you,” Dad says, pointing to a corner, where a full basin waits for me. “Go, get ready so we can eat.”

I go to the bathroom with the water basin, being careful to not spill a single drop. I wash my face and brush my teeth, happy that I took a shower yesterday after I got home from the Shed. Some days I simply collapse in the bed of exhaustion.

The clothes I’m wearing today are simple but beautiful, a burgundy-colored dress with embroidered flowers everywhere. From what I see on television, everyone in the districts wear their best clothes on reaping day, but in 8 this is a matter of honor since it’s our main industry. In 1 it’s almost a black-tie ball, but they are way richer than the rest of us since they make luxury items. The exception for that is 3, they use the same factory jumpsuits that we wear here daily, just in a different color. Well, I figure that you can’t expect geniuses to have a fashion sense. I don’t have much of it either, so I don’t judge. If it wasn’t for my dad, I would go around wearing a trash bag for all I care. The main difference is that I am not that smart, but whatever.

I tie back my curly hair and put my bracelet, made with my aunt’s token. The token is a weird tradition from 8, when a very dear person passes away, we take a piece of their deathbed clothes and make a bracelet out of it. The cloth is then embroidered with the same pattern that the family made in the shroud, and then used on special occasions to honor the dead. I don’t use this every day, of course, but there is a small chance that I will be going to the Capitol today. I want to have this with me, in case anything goes wrong.

A chill goes up my spine when I think about it. What are my odds of being reaped today? Seven in what… Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? I don’t know exactly, but it’s still small, there’s a higher chance that I will die fighting in the Shed than in the Hunger Games, if I think about it. But still, I am overcome by the image of Dad embroidering my shroud and placing crumbs of bread on top of my grave, another funerary tradition of 8. The whole district pays their respects, as is usually done to families of fallen tributes, and I am buried by the ‘river’ instead of the local cemetery.

I bite my lips, trying to get back to reality.

“The odds are in your favor, Velvet,” I tell my reflection in the small mirror on the wall. “You are not dying soon, okay?”

Somehow, the pep talk doesn’t help, but a reaping without panic is not really a reaping. That’s why the Capitol does them, giving us a day off and all, so we can go crazy without the distraction of school or work. Trying to keep this in mind, I go get breakfast.

  
  



End file.
